


could have been.

by sam_roulette



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, False Memories, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Martim week: alternate meeting, On Steroids. there's actually 3 expanded alt meetings and More Besides, Paranoia, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Season 3, Surrealism, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29305416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_roulette/pseuds/sam_roulette
Summary: [ Martin couldn’t help it. The second he processed it as funny, he was laughing so hard that his diaphragm felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed. Everything that had been building up- the months of monsters and fears simmering underneath them, the growing rift that had torn them apart, the fact that Martin was so afraid he was going to fuck this up and drive the knife deeper into Tim’s heart- it came out laughing.“God-” Martin tried to get out, “It- the- a Leitner turned my memories into a fucking romcom,” ]A Leitner plants false memories of lives Martin and Tim never shared together into Martin's head and Martin tries to remember how they really met.[For MarTim Week, day 2: Alternate meetings. About 7 of them, actually.]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	could have been.

**Author's Note:**

> CWs:  
> \- arguments  
> \- canon-typical violence; a single wound gotten from the Leitner, but a fair bit of blood is shed  
> \- mentions of past child abuse/neglect for Martin's mum  
> \- character death mention (Danny)  
> \- grief/trauma  
> -paranoia  
> \- unreality (the Leitner literally plants fake memories in people's heads to try and make them go mad with knowing too much)  
> \- mental breakdowns  
> \- several implied deaths (not real, part of the unreality)  
> \- dying in one's sleep (also not real)

Martin really wasn’t used to having anyone’s eyes on him. Not that he was used to anyone taking notice of him at all, but like this, in a crowded place… 

It was rare for his mum to take him anywhere, so really, Martin was grateful for this much- he told himself that, wrapping his thin coat tighter around himself as a trickle of customers passed him and walked into the store. Mum had said to wait outside while she did the shopping, and so he stayed, idly tapping his foot against the concrete and waiting. 

He wished his mum brought him when it was a bit warmer, though… and when there wasn’t the persistent feeling of someone continually glancing his way. Looking to the crowd, he tried to find who it was, and the faces were already blending together. The lady with her little dog had the same hat as an old man holding onto the metal bar of the cart, muttering under his breath; the dog had the same voice as the kids sprinting ahead of their dad, smoking a cigar so noisily that the steam was palpable. 

Covering his nose, Martin coughed into his sleeve, folding in on himself with the hope that whoever was there might lose interest in the kid standing by the automatic doors-

-and looked up to find himself nose to nose with another kid.

“Y…?” Martin could scarcely get out before stumbling back, back hitting against the glass somewhat painfully as the other kid blinked, unphased. 

“What’re you doing out here?” He asked, not seeming all that worried about being in Martin’s personal space. 

“My, um,” Martin swallowed, pressing himself against the window as he tried to figure out a way to escape this, “My mum’s inside s-shopping, so, I’m, out here.”

“You’re not shopping with her?” The weird kid questioned, bewildered, “‘s cold as a witch’s tit out here!”

“Yeah, well…” Martin didn’t really have an answer for that. Or, well, he did. But it was the kind of answer that got the social worker called- and this boy in his overly sparkly pink coat seemed like the tattling type, what with talking with strangers out of nowhere like this. Instead, he said, “Well what- what about you, then? Why aren’t  _ you  _ shopping with your mum?”

“Asked her if I could come out and chill,” said the boy casually, as though that were a totally normal occurrence. He turned a stupidly large grin at Martin at the last word. Martin stared at him blankly and let the silence settle between them. The kid sucked in a breath through his teeth, “Wow, uh, okay, tough crowd- it’s too early for the cold shoulder innit? I was expecting a frigid reception but this is ridiculous…” He paused. “... Yeah, I’m out of ice puns.”

Who started saying puns at someone they didn’t even know? Weirdo. Still, he was certainly trying to do… something, and Martin didn’t want to be rude, so he cleared a throat a bit and said, “Well they were… ice… to hear...?” 

The grin was back in such a blinding force that it was actually kind of hard to look at. A gloved hand was stuck out between them as the kid said, “I’m Tim- what’s your name?”

“It’s… Martin. My name is Martin,” He hesitantly took Tim’s hand because, you know. It was a polite thing to do. What he didn’t expect was for Tim to pull him a bit closer and sling an arm around his shoulder, grinning all the while. 

“Cool!! Looks like you could use some company. There’s this sick arcade up ‘round the corner- wanna come with?” 

“Um- I-i’m not sure if my mum would…” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine!! My mum even said it’d probably be fine if you come with-”

And Tim did manage to convince Martin to come with, in the end. (His mum didn’t even notice- only looked somewhat disappointed when he showed back up at their front door.)

So, Martin was about nine the first time he met Tim Stoker. 

From there on out they were inseparable.

* * *

“No, we weren’t,” Tim said, slowly letting out a breath, “and no, we… didn’t meet like that.”

Martin winced, gaze kept stubbornly to the table. Tim quietly sat across from him, holding the remains of a smashed tape recorder in his grasp and having as hard a time looking back at Martin as Martin had at him. 

Sitting in front of Martin, right on the breakroom table Martin and Tim were sitting across from each other, sat the Leitner that put them in this position.

“So it was another false memory, then…” Martin closed his eyes, hands squeezing together momentarily. It had seemed so vivid, too- the chill of the air, the feeling of scratchy material against Martin’s bare hand, the feeling of being watched… but of course, it had to be a fluke. His mother had barely let him leave the house that year.  He remembered because one night when he’d come from school, his mum wasn’t even there to open the door.

“Not all of it,” Tim said, voice oddly quiet. Martin looked up at him, breath catching in his throat just looking at him. The dark bags under his eyes were getting worse. Martin didn’t bother asking if Tim had slept; it was obvious Tim hadn’t. [When they were kids Tim had been a light sleeper. Sometimes Martin slept over to help him get to sleep.] _No he didn't._ It took a long moment for Tim to work his jaw enough to say, “I did have a coat like that, when I was a kid. It, ah,” He laughed mirthlessly, less from humor and more from instinct, “I had to beg my mum for it, ‘cause she was looking at this black one with fur on the hood to match with…”

“Danny,” Martin finished. Tim looked at him, startled. Martin blinked back, mouth parting slightly as he tried to figure out where that name had come from. “I- I don’t know who…”

“My brother.” Tim said tonelessly. He pulled a tape recorder from between the cushions beside him and threw the device against the wall, jolting Martin at the suddenness of the action [except it was totally expected, because Tim had always been more keen on sound; when they were ten, Tim snuck Martin into a closed park just so they could sit in the grass and hear the cicadas. Tim got scolded. Martin didn’t get dinner.] “I never told you about him.”

“Then that means…” Martin slowly looked to the leather-bound journal on the table, unassuming in all ways now that it was closed. It had been an accident that Martin had glanced at the open pages just after Tim had touched it. How was he to know that the first entry would be a “diary entry” from “Tim”, age six, talking about a new boy he met down the block that just so happened to be named Martin Blackwood? [Tim used to carry around the diary a lot, especially during sleepovers. Martin pretended to be asleep and Tim giggled whenever he wrote what Martin had assumed were more bad puns until Tim crawled back into bed.]

Martin swallowed around the fake memory of a life he’d never lived and continued, “That means that it’s able to give me information about you. It gives me information, and then it superimposes you into my… my backstory.”

“More or less, looks like,” Tim said.

“... We should write this down,” Martin said, biting his lip, “Jon will want to know, when he gets back.”

Tim muttered, “Yeah. Bet he would.”

“Tim…”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s… it’s serious.” Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair. It’d been getting much longer, as of late, far more unkempt. “This is… a lot, and we don’t know how exactly to reverse it.”

Martin wanted to reach out and brush it for him, find some way to give some measure of comfort [especially since Tim loved having his hair played with.] But to Martin’s knowledge, Tim hadn’t let… anyone, touch him in the last few months. He certainly hadn’t let Martin. 

Martin realized a little too late that he hadn’t answered and cleared his throat, rubbing a thumb over his own knuckles, “We just need to get the story straight, then. If we… if I know how we really met, then maybe it will just… stop.”

“Maybe,” Tim said, and Martin tried not to think about how he was staring at Martin’s hands. “Either that, or you’ll end up like…” 

Tim didn’t finish, but Martin knew exactly what he meant. It was all in the statement.

-

_ I- I tried to get through to him, to tell him how we really met. How it was a boring, totally meaningless interaction. We’d only met in the office the day before we were set to train the newbies, you know? He asked me if I wanted a bottled water since he had a bunch, and I said, well, sure, because I was a little thirsty. He handed one off to me and said good luck with the meeting the next day, and I said thank you, you too. And that was the end of that. We only ever talked about work, outside of that, or some of the new interns. _

_ I told him, but he didn’t believe it. He kept saying that I was lying, or that I was trying to pay a joke on him, and just- just, as he was coming up on me, he was saying this was the kind of joke that I was playing back in high school that summer, just before I… but. But it’s not possible. It’s not possible, that he could know that. I never told anyone- it wasn’t anything that any normal stalker could just find online, and he’d only met me two months ago, so how… it doesn’t matter. _

_ All that matters is that he was worse, after that. He muttered a lot before, after he found that blank notebook, but after that it was all I could hear from him. Under his breath, around the corner, just out of the periphery of my hearing- he was always there, and it was always just quiet enough that I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Until I could. Until I could, and when I realized what he was saying, my blood ran cold. He just kept saying…  _

-

Martin shuddered, saying faintly, “I don’t want that to happen. I… if anything ever happened to you, I would-”

“I know.” Tim said, taking a deep breath, “I know. But, hey, we caught this early, right? We know what to do. And as long as we’re not burning it, and I’m not telling you how we met yet, we’re all good to go. No muss, no fuss, no… weird visions.”

“Right. Right, yeah, you’re… you’re right.” Martin looked at the journal for a moment longer, trying to force bile back down his throat when looking at the charred corner. When they’d tried to destroy it… Christ, when they’d tried to destroy it. Martin counted back from three and started to get up, “I think maybe we ought to have something to drink, though. I can…”

“Martin,” said Tim, “how do you think we met?”

Martin paused. He slowly lowered himself back into his seat. “I… it doesn’t matter, does it? Now that we’ve knocked out a few memories-”

“But how do you think we did? Now?” [Tim had also been a lonely child, even with Danny. But they had each other.] “You know we weren’t ever childhood friends- didn’t even live in the same neighborhood. What now?”

[Tim used to be scared of thunderstorms. He always put on a brave face for Danny, but late at night, whenever Tim loudly insinuated that the weather was just too bad for him to go, Tim would cling to Martin’s arm under the quilts and ask him to talk to him to drown out the storm.]

“I…” shouldn’t be doing this, and yet Martin would, because looking at Tim made his chest ache, “Well… I think it starts…” 

He closed his eyes, trying to get that vivid picture back. It couldn’t have been the outside of bargain world at the east end, because Tim just confirmed it didn’t happen, but Martin could still see it in the back of his mind. The empty street, devoid of people. The desolate store,  _ devoid of customers. Martin in the frigid cold, alone in the center of a world that wasn’t real. A nine-year old Tim, standing in the middle of the road with his pink coat vibrant against washed out colors and the cracks in the sidewalk. _

_ Tim’s head turned to Martin too smoothly. Martin looked and Tim stared back, unmoving. He really had been a thin child. He was positively tiny against the wide snapshot of the newly emptied London thoroughfare. _

_ A car _

Martin’s eyes snapped open and he doubled forward with a gasp, covering his mouth. Tim lurched up out of his seat, eyes widening as he rushed to Martin’s side, and Martin could feel the nervous heat from Tim’s hand hovering over his shoulder. Hesitating. Stopping just short of actually touching him. 

“Martin,” Tim said urgently, “Martin, what did it show you this time?”

“It-” Martin’s throat closed up as he spoke, breath coming less easily as he tried to force through the ringing in his ears. “It was- a car. I- I opened my eyes before I could see it, but it looked like you were…”

“Oh, Jesus,” Tim breathed, taking a step back. “That… is bloody  _ awful.” _

“I know,” [and Martin knew Tim was hesitating because he was overthinking it. He was always overthinking it. It’d been that way since sixth form.] Martin hesitated for a moment before saying, “I think… I know another way we met, at least.” 

“You don’t… I just...” Tim began haltingly. 

Martin interrupted, “I think I need to. Like it’s… what it wants.” 

For a long moment, they sat in silence. Martin’s hand slowly rested at his throat, falling away from his mouth, and Tim stood beside him, looking at him. Before long, Tim finally went back to his seat. 

“Alright,” Tim said, sitting down heavily, “go ahead.”

“It was your final year. Just before I dropped out…” 

* * *

Martin really ought to find another lunch spot. Someplace equally as isolated as the usual place used to be, but somewhere where Roscoe and his crew still wouldn’t find him. But, dammit, Martin had scouted out this corner of the schoolyard for himself, and like hell was he going to give it up.

Even if the other person was crying. 

… God, someone had come out here to cry.

Letting out a heavy breath, Martin set his tray of food down on the nearby bench. He didn’t exactly have an appetite, but if he didn’t eat now he’d have to dip into his stash later, and he was running low on peanut butter. Best to figure out what was going on and very firmly tell them to piss off elsewhere, in as polite and comforting a way as he could manage.

There was a large oak tree in the corner of the yard that awkwardly slanted up against one of the great walls of the secondary school. It was honestly a miracle something hadn’t caved in yet; but there was a small corner, where the wall met the iron fencing, that the tree hid from the world and everything in it. Including shitty teenage boys. (Which, of course, Martin was, but only in name. Maybe that was because it was so hard to really talk with any of them.)

Just because Martin had trouble talking to them didn’t mean that he didn’t know their names. It was always a good idea to pay attention to who everyone was talking about; who to avoid, and who to be nice to, and who to run from by any means necessary. That was just what survival meant. So, he had a pretty good idea of who might have been there.

He just didn’t expect it to be Tim Stoker to be crying behind a tree, though.

As in, “top ten in his class” Timothy Stoker. As in “theatre club president” Timothy Stoker. As in Tim “loved by uni recruiters everywhere and general teenage heartthrob” Stoker. 

Maybe not so loved by universities after all. The rejection letter Martin managed to see before Tim quickly crumpled it up was from Oxford.

“Er,” Martin said, looking back at Tim, who was huddled up against the tree’s trunk like if he didn’t move Martin wouldn’t bite him. Anything that Martin had thought to say was immediately ejected from his thought process. He was prepared for seeing Sandra or Claire or Melvin, who had wandered here once or twice for a good cry and who he understood on some level. They were like him, in many ways- painfully average in pretty much all respects except for a little nugget or two of something they liked.

Tim Stoker, on the other hand, was so far out of Martin’s orbit that he may as well have been from Mars. Martin cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other as he said, “Uh, so… are you alright there, mate?”

Tim didn’t say anything; only looked back with his stupidly handsome face, holding the crumpled up paper over his heart as though trying to belatedly hide it. Then, contrary to anything Martin knew about other guys, he just began to cry  _ more,  _ burying his face in his hands _. _ With a bitten off whine the school’s number one pretty boy showed that despite that title he was a positively hideous crier. 

“Um, I, hah-” Martin stumbled over his words, quickly crouching down beside Tim, hands hovering. He had no clue what to do with him. Should he give physical reassurance? Was he even allowed to touch him? “I-It’s okay? It’s okay, you can… it’s good to let it out? Just take your time, there’s… just us.” He finally settled on resting a hand on Tim’s shoulder, settling on the ground to let the guy ride it out. This was already above Martin’s pay grade. And he wasn’t even being paid for this.

It took a few moments, but after a while, Tim finally loosened up, wiping the snot off his face with a sleeve as he said a shuddering, “Sorry for all that.”

“It’s okay,” Martin said even though it was not okay and he would probably need to skip lunch. “It’s just… are you alright? Do you want to maybe, talk or…” 

“It’s stupid, really,” Tim said, wiping his eyes and leaving the sleeve there as though trying to hide, “I just, uh… didn’t get into a uni I wanted, and my mates were pokin’ fun. Not that I would’ve gotten the full ride if I did, but...”

“I mean, Oxford is- it’s  _ hard  _ to get into, man,” Martin said, “and with a full ride, it’s… a lot.”

“Yeah.” Tim said, “But, y’know, it’s. It’s not actually a big deal. There’s other fish in the sea- c’est la vie.”

Not every fish was Oxford, of course, but Martin figured it was best to keep that to himself. Besides, someone like Tim always had more Oxfords on the horizon than someone like Martin. “Yeah.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments before Tim said, “I’m Tim.”

“I know,” Martin said, somewhat exasperatedly. He paused before adding on, “In a non-creepy way, I mean.”

“Oh, obviously,” Tim turned a little smile to Martin, and it made his heart skip a beat. “Reputations and precedents. They exist.”

“Yeah,” Martin said dumbly. Maybe with a muse like Tim, he could get published before he even left the school. If he got rich, he hoped Tim wouldn’t ask for too much for his cut of the profit. 

“So what about you?”

“M-Me?”

“Yeah- what’s your reputation then, stranger?” 

Martin, whose brain was currently in a hard reboot and was unable to find any filters, said, “A poet, I guess?”

Tim blinked for a moment before giving a bright, open laugh. His grin had dimples, and Martin, who was having a great lot of trouble keeping a lid on the whole “homosexuality” business, felt like the protagonist in one of those trashy Victorian novels that populated the library by his house. Tim clarified, “I meant your  _ name-  _ though, that  _ is  _ a pretty good reputation to have.”

“Oh.” Martin’s cheeks were burning. This was it. This was the end of the world. His entire life was over. From here on out he would need to hide in his house and never talk to another living soul, much less the likes of Tim Stoker, and slowly become a withered husk of a human being on junk food hidden in his closet and reality tv. “I’m, um. Martin.”

“Well, nice to meet you, esteemed poet Martin,” Tim smiled, and usually this would be Martin’s cue to realize that this was a joke of some kind and that Tim was mocking him. But it really didn’t feel that way. Maybe it was easier to guess at someone’s sincerity after seeing them bawl their eyes out. Who knew? “Are you usually ‘round here about now? I’d love to hear some of it,”

“Some of what?” Martin questioned, feeling all the air punch out of him. 

“Your poetry!” Tim beamed, “I’m something of a poet myself, I think- it’d be nice to compare notes.”

“Y-Yeah. Sure. And I-!” Martin cleared his throat, cheeks feeling hotter than ever, “I’d love to.”

“Nice!” Tim stood, shoulders squared back and head held high. If Martin hadn’t found him so vulnerable, he might have mistaken the previous breakdown as some kind of hallucination. “Welp! I should head back for today- I promised Mel I’d help him with his lines, so,” He gave a little salute as he hurried away, calling over his shoulder, “Ta!” 

“See you…” Martin waved, the butterflies in his stomach giving him a truly horrible amount of indigestion. He should write that down, actually. 

He might have had the time to come to doubt Tim’s intentions, if not for the fact that Tim proceeded not to leave him alone for the rest of his life.

* * *

Tim didn’t say anything. Martin didn’t say anything. They sat in silence, with Martin inwardly cringing with every word that had fallen out of his mouth. The fact that he was forced to live through his teenage years for even a moment was a torture not even found in the ninth circle of hell.

Tim pulled his legs up onto the couch in front of him. He said, “Pardon me for a moment,” before grabbing one of the pillows beside him, resting it delicately on his knees, and shoving his face in it. 

“Um…?” Martin said. That was when Tim made a high pitched, wheezing sound not unlike the last cry of a broken squeaker in an especially toothy dog’s toy. 

It was only when Tim’s shoulders started shaking that Martin realized he was laughing.

Martin couldn’t help it. The second he processed it as funny, he was laughing so hard that his diaphragm felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed. Everything that had been building up- the months of monsters and fears simmering underneath them, the growing rift that had torn them apart, the fact that Martin was  _ so afraid  _ he was going to fuck this up and drive the knife deeper into Tim’s heart- it came out laughing. He hadn’t even seen Tim smile in what felt like years and that was funny too, hearing the muffled sob-laughing coming from the pillow Tim had taken hostage.

“God-” Martin tried to get out, “It- the- a Leitner turned my memories into a fucking  _ romcom,”  _

Tim cried out laughing like it physically pained him, “It turned us into a Disney channel original!” 

[Which was how he and Martin had celebrated, incidentally, when Tim had gotten into Trinity College- Martin took the day off work and left his mother to her own devices for a few hours and huddled onto Tim’s floor-mattress, watching all the High School Musical movies. His leg comfortably rested against Tim’s and they ate cheap microwavable popcorn until they were queasy, and Tim was trying to get Martin to sing along on the dreaded car ride back to Martin’s house.]

“You got into  _ Cambridge!”  _ Martin said, delighted, “On a full scholarship! First in your family- that is  _ incredible  _ Tim,”

“God,” Tim said, raising his head and wiping at his eyes. [Still a bit of an ugly crier.] “I really did think that it was the end of the world back then, y’know? Not getting into Oxford- thought all my dreams were shot and everything.” His breath was a little shaky as he sat back, shaking his head, “I was one dramatic ass kid.”

“I think that’s just a description of teenagers in general,” Martin said, slowly getting air back in his lungs. “Still, you did well for yourself! With two degrees too…”

“Yeah, well,” The laugh that came this time was again without color, “load of good that did me. I’m here.”

The smile slowly slid off of Martin’s face as he sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

The catharsis of the moment evaporated without a trace. It was good in the moment- freeing in ways they weren’t- and now there was nothing but a heaviness in the back of Martin’s eyes. Martin closed his eyes to center himself and in the schoolyard a teenage Tim paused, looking up at the open blue sky. His usually pressed uniform was rumpled now, with  _ blades of grass sticking to the knit of his sweater vest and cowlicks trying to crawl away from the back of his head.  _

_ Martin looked at Tim’s back and wondered at how helpless he looked, trying to stand taller than the iron rising miles above him. Everything was still too big for him, schoolboy passions and all.  _

_ And then the sharpened steel rods from the construction above began to fall.  _

_ The image of a butterfly pinned in a glass case flashed across Martin’s mind and adolescent valor reached into him as he rushed forward into the tirade. _

_ Tim didn’t turn around when the first rod sliced through the meat of Martin’s shoulder _

and Martin gasped, hand flying to the phantom pain that shot through him. He breathed through the pain, taking a deep breath in whenever the worst spike of red-hot fire burned and breathing out to steady himself. 

“Alright,” said Martin, smiling reassuringly at Tim, “I think that handles that crop of fake memories.”

But Tim was staring at Martin’s shoulder, eyes widened. Tim said faintly, “You’re bleeding.”

Martin felt ice seep from his shoulder and into his veins. “I… what…” 

“Dammit,” Tim cursed, springing from his seat. He quickly went to his backpack, thrown off to the side of the room so that he could beat a hasty retreat once this forced time with Martin ended, and dug through it. Throat going dry, Martin spared a glance at his left shoulder, still whinging in pain.

There was so much red that it was staining his jumper a deep purple. Martin thought, rather calmly, that it was nice to have an excuse to get rid of this old thing anyhow. He then not so calmly clawed at the collar of his jumper and shirt, shoving them down and off his shoulder to take a look at the angry gash that had appeared, glistening on the sides. Sometimes there were cuts that reminded someone of just how much of their body is meat. This was one of them.

“The memories…” No, not the memories. The fake memories themselves were safe. “When memories die, they can physically harm you, if you try to interrupt... Best to note that down…”

“Forget the bleeding notes!” Tim said, rushing to Martin’s side with a rather impressive little first aid kit. When the first rag met his shoulder, Martin hissed in pain, eyes squinting shut. “And, Christ, okay, this- this looks deeper than it actually is. Might be an illusion, a by-product...”

“More for Jon to know,” Martin said idly, trying not to think too hard about the feeling of cold metal scraping his skin jagged. 

“If you mention Jon one more time,” Tim muttered darkly, gently sopping up the blood Martin had spilt just by sitting still, “I swear to God. I’ll… I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Martin snapped, “You’ll do  _ what,  _ Tim?”

“I’ll never talk to you again,” Tim hissed, “Never, ever again.”

“And that’s any different from the usual.” Martin muttered.

Tim’s hand stilled on Martin’s wound. “I’m sorry. I do believe I heard you saying shit. Mind telling me that a little louder?”

“Not when you’re able to pour salt on the wound, no,” Martin bit out, and the second he did, he realized what he’d just said. Everything came to a standstill, and the silence in the moment was deafening. Martin, not able to bear the idea of looking at Tim’s face, turned his head only enough to see out the corner of his eye. Even indirectly, Tim’s hurt was palpable.

But Tim didn’t say anything. He averted his eyes and went back to dressing Martin’s wound. The tenderness burnt to the point that Martin wished Tim had hurt him instead.

Tim was wrapping the gauze when Martin finally was able to get out a quiet, “I’m sorry.” Tim only packed up his first aid kit and deposited himself mechanically across the table from Martin again. 

He still wouldn’t look Martin in the eye. Martin’s mouth opened, then closed, and opened again as he said, “I know you would never hurt me- or anyone else here, for that matter. It… I shouldn’t have said…”

“How did we meet, Martin?” Tim asked hollowly. 

Martin closed his eyes. “Tim.” 

Tim pulled his knees up to his chest again. “Just… the sooner we get through this, the better. You don't have to see me anymore."

"That was never the problem-" 

"You'll be safe." 

Martin opened his mouth to protest that, but ultimately couldn't find the words. He knew Tim only meant he'd be safe from one thing- the creeping madness promised by the Leitner. It didn't help in other regard whatsoever. It wasn't like Martin could say any contrived thing about always being safe wherever Tim was. What kind of excuse could he give anyway? That he was safe with Tim in the center of a temple to a primordial fear God who was drinking in and enjoying this conversation as if it were a refreshing beverage? That either of them would be safe outside of this room? They were in the nerves and wires of it, bringing and divulging ghoulish information until such time that they were too dead to know anything ever again. 

"... Right." Martin finally said, sitting back. He wished he could make tea for this situation; Tim would never accept it.

"Just don’t do what you did to get that gash, and...” Tim hesitated. “Unless you’re in more danger. If we can… find another way.”

“I.” Martin said, thinking, "Don’t think I will be. In danger, I mean. I’m good to keep going.”

Martin wanted to do anything else to assure Tim he was safe. That they had time, in the interim, and that they knew what to look out for. He wanted to hold Tim again and tell him they could get through this, and not have the option of hurting Tim by doubting him. 

“Then... please.” Tim finally said, hugging himself. “Tell me how it could have been.”

[Tim was a man who dealt in hypotheticals- speculative fiction was like that and so were people. He liked psychology and he liked that it could be used for good. He was the type to tip the barista double the price of the drink when he got a promotion; the type to make anyone who met with him in his shiny office feel like they were geniuses waiting to be discovered; the type who made bigwigs look at him with contempt for toeing a line considered a taboo for those with “”class”” and made interns aspire to be their best selves, and to be good people to boot.]

They met at a café Martin had worked in. Tim’s shoes and glasses retainer were so shiny Martin was too shy to really talk to him at first, but Tim loved to talk while waiting for his coffee. The family-run café Martin manned the counter of got less and less business. 

[Tim was a man with a comfortable life he’d cleaved together with the support of a loving family who wanted the world for him, determination, and an unusual amount of luck. He was his parents’ pride and joy and he doted on them in turn. Most of his first bonus went to his mum’s house. His father, body bent in twenty places by decades of manual labor, wept when he knew he would be able to retire.]

They met at a writing convention Martin had saved just enough of his money to go to, only able to afford the bare necessities for himself on the trip. Tim had given a talk to a group of aspiring writers about worldbuilding and how developmental editors could help on the other end to iron out the less realistic bits, if realism was what they were going for. 

“But don’t shy away from inconsistency! Even if you're looking to go the more gritty realism route. I know, I know,” Tim had been saying, gesturing exaggeratedly, “It sounds like the ultimate taboo, the way some people spin it. How can two characters in the same world, the same culture- hell, the same  _ village-  _ have vastly different views of their nation’s own mythology or religion? How can they have incomplete or even _unreliable_ info even if they're not actively trying to lie to you? Well, take this from the anthro major in me- and  _ no  _ not  _ that one- _ ” Pause for laughter. “But as an anthropology major. People contradict themselves  _ all  _ the time. It's one of the few universal constants in literally any culture.

“By all means, have common throughlines! It doesn’t make sense for an innocent soothsayer to go full murder after five seconds,” Tim continued, “or for a hundred or so people who spent their entire lives together in the same place to have a wildly different religion for every single person. But don’t be afraid to make people contrarian, and don’t be afraid to make them hypocrites. Don’t be afraid to make them have opinions on the world around them! 

“Someone who could be soothed by the giant, evil eyeball controlling the world and the vast horde of dark soldiers coming to do their bidding in stopping the one ring to rule them all could live right next door to someone who is…” Tim dramatically paused, “not that. I don’t know, is that Lord of the Rings? I’ve never read Lord of the Rings.” 

[Tim dealt in hypotheticals because, for as wild as life seemed to be, everything still stemmed from a logical path. He knew he had luck on his side and he took advantage. Standing in the publishing industry meant bigger and brighter things, meeting bigger and brighter people, and providing enough for his family in their age. So his parents could live their golden years comfortably. So that his younger brother had the choice to avoid gaining the callouses and scars that littered their parents’ hands.]

Martin and Tim first met when Martin, who had never before had a door to get his foot in, found out that developmental editor Timothy Stoker offered a free consultation to new authors. Martin approached the solid oak door with trepidation, feeling severely underdressed in his cable knit jumper and second-hand slacks. When Tim opened the door, Martin was blinded by the excess polish.

Tim still smiled warmly and offered Martin a cup of tea.

[But there was one scenario Tim could have never predicted.]

Martin and Tim first met when Tim, working overtime for an enthusiastic new client with an affinity for the paranormal, came to the Magnus Institute’s library department to request some histories on the discovery of ectoplasm. He was helping his client better integrate the stuff into the magic system she had outlined, but wasn’t entirely in his element with it.

“Hum, do I believe in ghosts?” Tim mused, tilting his head, “I don’t want to discount anything… Ghosts  _ could  _ be real, I think! I I’d just need to see one to really say for sure.”

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died.]

[Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died. Danny died

  
  
  
  
  


they thought Tim killed him.]

“We should stop.” Martin said, feeling sick. There was no seeing the family resemblance when the Danny in the memory didn’t look like a person to begin with. “You don’t want to know.”

Tim said, “Tell me anyway.”

[It was all over the news.]

Martin swallowed. Took a deep breath. “Are you sure? It… has to do with that night. When Danny was killed.”

Tim only nodded. Martin let out his breath.

[Urban Explorer Found Devoid Of Skin Underneath London’s Royal Opera House.]

“You were nearly catatonic,” Martin whispered, “when you managed to move again. I had been inside too, but I don’t remember why. The… the act left me too shellshocked. The spiders had been there. I was afraid, and you were too, but you… you could barely walk straight.” 

[Daniel Stoker was last seen at the home of his older brother.]

“You were in a completely other world. I couldn’t find it in myself to… to call out to you. I was afraid that if you knew I was there and didn’t help, then I would… I would have been to blame. I wasn’t sure how stable you were. But I ignored a call from my mother, and I… I followed you for a bit. Just to make sure you were okay!”

[Everyone loved Danny- no one more than his big brother. ]

[Brotherhood is a flimsy excuse, isn’t it?]

“You didn’t go home. You just… wandered. I was afraid of leaving you alone, so I finally walked up to you and said hello, late night, isn’t it? And you didn’t say anything at all. And I was getting nervous, so I just blurted out that you looked like someone had died, and you finally said, yes. My brother. He,” Martin’s breath caught in his throat, “My brother died. I said I was really sorry to hear that, and I just… 

“It felt bad, to lie to you like that. I asked if you needed help finding your way home. You said you weren’t going home. So I said you could come home with me, and let you sleep in my bed while I took the couch. You were asleep when the news broke.” Martin squeezed his eyes shut. “... You woke up at the sound of the telly. You were watching for a bit, and then you said ‘I didn’t do it’, and I asked what you meant. But I knew what you meant.”

Tim’s lip was bleeding.

“And I hugged you, and said I believed you. And I believed you when you moved in. And I believed you when everything fell apart. When you had to quit, and when your mother asked you on call if… if you really didn’t…” Martin took in a ragged breath, “I still believed you. During all of it- but you never believed me.”

“Because none of it happened.” Tim finished, shutting his eyes. “And even if it did, I didn’t even believe myself sometimes.”

[Who would ever believe in a ghost story as silly as that?]

It was hard to breathe. “You don’t… really think you would…”

“I don’t know what I was thinking then- didn’t know for sure if it was supernatural until I’d started researching it.” Tim hugged himself tighter, “The day I finally got back to work everyone under me had resigned. People were avoiding me in the street if they saw my face. My dad treated- the way he looked at me, at the funeral… it was like I was a stranger to them. To everyone I’d ever known. I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror, some days.”

“I wish I would’ve been there,” is all Martin can think to say, words tumbling out, “that somehow, if only we’d met any earlier… I would have stayed by you.”

“You weren’t there.” Tim said, “You never got a chance. It's not your fault.” 

Martin couldn’t take this anymore. The distance was suffocating, and leaving Tim there, curled in on himself as though his bones were the only defense he had against the whole world, was an unspeakable cruelty. He wordlessly got up and went to the couch to wrap Tim up in his arms, squeezing tightly. 

Tim tensed against him at first. The last time they’d been this close had been months ago, with Martin still petting Tim’s hair and driving a straight razor into his carotid with words like ‘but belief is a hard thing’ and ‘Jon doesn’t believe you, and you might have to deal with that,’ Martin understood, now, how deeply he’d been cutting. And how deep he could have been cutting now.

Taking a shaky breath, he tried to move away, muttering a little, "Sorry- I shouldn't have-"

"No." Tim muttered, grabbing onto his sleeve. "Just... stay. Like that."

"Are you alright with that?" Martin asked and Tim nodded. Martin sat on the couch beside Tim and wrapped his rigid body back up in an embrace, holding on a little more gently. Giving Tim room to wriggle away, if he needed.

But Tim melted against him like he’d been waiting all this time for an excuse to be pliable; like he’d been seeking even a sliver of asylum. Martin buried his face in Tim’s unkempt hair and held him, watching the exhausted Tim in his false memory sleep for days turning to months turning to forever.  _ Never once leaving his bed, Tim slowly atrophied into the sheets. Afraid of every eye on him, he found no reason to wake up.  _

_ Tim died alone in his bed. This time, Martin didn’t look away.  _

_ He went to the corpse slowly growing weeds and held its head in his lap so that they would at least be lonely together. _

Tim was near silent when he said. “It would have been nice, though. Having you.” There were tears staining the shoulder that was free of blood, “I would have loved to have you there. It… maybe if...”

“I’m here now.” Martin said. It was never going to be enough. Not after everything.

"I loved him- he was," Tim hiccupped, trying to bury his face further into Martin's neck, "he was the most important- he- I didn't... I wouldn't have ever hurt him. I-"

He held Tim closer, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "Shh.. shh lovey, I know. I know you didn't. You wouldn't." But it was still there. The desperate muttering as Tim broke down completely. 

_I_ _didn't do it I didn't do it I didn't do it_

Martin no longer remembered how he and Tim met.

And Martin said "I believe you." because that, at least, was the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies to absolutely everyone about to read this, because I wrote this full thing in 4 hours after listening to Two Breaths Walking 21 times with only One Kagerou Daze to break it up and i might have been momentarily possessed during the writing of this
> 
> but, we hope you enjoyed!


End file.
